


Once ain't Enough

by SageMasterofSass



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: 10 Dance crossover, Cuban!Yamaguchi, Dirty Dancing, F/F, Frotting, M/M, Tsukishima dances standard, Tsukishima is a major asshole but he makes up for it, Yamaguchi dances Latin, Yamaguchi stands up for himself and demands respect, but really only in the beginning, dick jokes and awkward situations, its hella cute, its just smut so have fun with that, not completely compliant with the manga, oh and more spanish speaking yamaguchi, pls just imagine tsukki in a fancy suit, rating change for the epilogue, spoilers for the 10 Dance manga if you've never read it, thats like the major reason i wrote this, they're in lesbians, with coattails and suspenders, yachi and shimizu go on a totally adorable date
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-06
Updated: 2015-08-21
Packaged: 2018-03-06 10:05:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 16,389
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3130580
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SageMasterofSass/pseuds/SageMasterofSass
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tsukishima is, after all, a professional dancer. He specializes in Standard, or ballroom, and has won first place in the World Championship six years in a row. With his dashing good looks; tall, pale, blonde hair cut short and neat, thick rimmed glasses, alluring golden eyes, and his smooth, deft movements when dancing, it’s really no surprise. When he dances he’s captivating, an angel come down to court whatever lucky partner he’s chosen, but Yamaguchi knows for a fact that his true personality is far colder.</p><p>Yamaguchi’s a professional dancer himself, however, specializing in Latin. Born and raised in Cuba he grew up dancing to the music on the streets of a big city. When he moved to Japan he’d had one goal, to make a living dancing, and he’s since reached it. He’s no big time champion like Tsukishima, but he’s won competitions at a national level and has had offers to be taken international. Refusing them dulls his reputation a little, but he doesn’t mind, he prefers teaching at his studio to any kind of fame. He’s also not particularly interested in learning Standard, Tsukishima’s preferred style, either. </p><p>So why then, is he here?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Reading the manga 10 Dance isn't mandatory in order to understand this fic. However, I highly suggest it because it's a fantastic story and I love the characters and the plot. Do it before or after you read this, it doesn't matter, they're very different. 
> 
> On that note, everything I know about professional dancing came from that manga and some videos I looked up on youtube. If you see anything that's wrong or doesn't make sense, point it out to me so that I can fix it. I try to keep my writing as accurate as possible, even with subject matter I'm not all that familiar with.

Honestly, Yamaguchi isn’t entirely sure why he’s running down the street at eleven in the evening, Yachi’s hand clasped tightly in his. Well, actually, he does know. They’re going to be late.

It’s the fact that they’re currently running headlong towards the infamous Tsukishima Kei’s studio that’s got him confused. Because never in his life would he have assumed that the cold, daunting Tsukishima would ask to teach _him,_ Yamaguchi Tadashi.

Tsukishima is, after all, a professional dancer. He specializes in Standard, or ballroom, and has won first place in the World Championship six years in a row. With his dashing good looks; tall, pale, blonde hair cut short and neat, thick rimmed glasses, alluring golden eyes, and his smooth, deft movements when dancing, it’s really no surprise. When he dances he’s captivating, an angel come down to court whatever lucky partner he’s chosen, but Yamaguchi knows for a fact that his true personality is far colder.

Yamaguchi’s a professional dancer himself, however, specializing in Latin. Born and raised in Cuba he grew up dancing to the music on the streets of a big city. When he moved to Japan he’d had one goal, to make a living dancing, and he’s since reached it. He’s no big time champion like Tsukishima, but he’s won competitions at a national level and has had offers to be taken international. Refusing them dulls his reputation a little, but he doesn’t mind, he prefers teaching at his studio to any kind of fame. He’s also not particularly interested in learning Standard, Tsukishima’s preferred style, either. It’s beautiful surely, but the movements look almost stuffy to him, too tight and controlled compared to the looser rhythm of Latin dance.

So why then, is he here?

Maybe it’s curiosity.

Maybe it’s that Tsukishima had stopped him as he was leaving the hall of the most recent competition, an unfamiliar gleam in his eye. “Let me teach you,” he’d murmured, and Yamaguchi had merely nodded dumbly.

“Woah,” breathes Yachi. They slow to a walk together and enter the famous studio, Yamaguchi’s dance partner’s hand still clasped in his. Her neck cranes as she looks up at the ceiling towering over them, painted a pale, tasteful blue, her chest rising and falling rapidly from their run.

Yamaguchi makes a noise of agreement, his own breath coming quickly as he examines the marble entry way. His eyes fall on a door way off to the side. It’s the only one with a light on, and Tsukishima emerges as they approach, dressed in casual work out pants and a tank top, arms crossed across his chest.

“You’re late,” he snaps in lieu of a greeting. There’s sweat on the nape of his neck and on his brow and Yamaguchi realizes he must still have been practicing, even though the studio has been closed for hours.

“Sorry!” squeaks Yachi, giving a little bow.

Laughing a little nervously, Yamaguchi scratches at the back of his head. He’s still got no clue what he’s doing here. “Ah, yeah, sorry about that. The subway was running late so we had to run all the way from the station.”

Tsukishima, looking unimpressed, simply curls his lip and then turns on his heel to lead back the way he came. The room is a small practice area with wooden floors, one wall full of mirrors, several chairs, a radio, and a screen to change behind set up off to the side. Tsukishima’s partner, Shimizu, is waiting for them and immediately she steps in to guide Yachi towards the screen, both discussing the type of clothing they’ll need in quiet voices.

“So, um,” starts Yamaguchi, pulling his messenger bag off his shoulder and setting it to the side. “Thanks for offering to teach me, I guess.” It hadn’t really been an offer, more a demand, but oh well.

Tsukishima watches coolly while Yamaguchi changes out his ratty sneakers for a scuffed pair of dress shoes, the ones he always practices best in, before shrugging one shoulder. “It’s not like I’m doing it for free.”

Yamaguchi’s eyes widen a little. Ah, so Tsukishima is after something then.  If it’s money, he’s quickly going to learn that he’d propositioned the wrong dancer. That can’t be it though, not with his fame and his studio, he had to be rolling in dough by this point. So something else then.  “Excuse me?”

Golden eyes behind thick black rims narrow. “You don’t think I was just offering to teach you out of the goodness of my heart, do you?” Tsukishima’s voice has always seemed cold, but at the moment Yamaguchi feels like it could freeze water with one touch.

“No?” he tries, finishing the laces on his shoes and moving to stand again. There’s a good five feet of space between him and Tsukishima but even so it still feels like the blonde man is bearing down on him.

“Good.” Unexpectedly, the corner of Tsukishima’s mouth quirks up and Yamaguchi’s gaze is drawn to the pink of his lips as they move. “Because I expect you to teach me Latin in return.”

Yamaguchi’s mouth falls open a little, but before he can try and come up with a response to that, Shimizu and Yachi reappear from behind the screen, dressed and ready to go in simple flattering leotards with sheer skirts.

Yachi smiles at him excitedly, clapping her hands together in front of her chest. “I’m so excited to learn Standard! Finally I’ll get to be a princess.”

“A princess?” echoes Shimizu. She’s taller than his partner, with dark hair to offset Yachi’s blonde, and easy, calm features. Yamaguchi’s seen her when competing though, and the beautiful, extravagant dresses and makeup she wears and knows that she can look both powerful and intimidating.

“Yeah! In Latin dances the woman is always a seductress or a prostitute,” Yachi whines, throwing one hand in the air and cocking out a hip as if to demonstrate. It changes though, her arms coming up as if to wrap around an imaginary partner’s neck and she gives a little spin. “But in Standard you get carried all over the floor, like a princess!”

Shimizu’s laugh is a quiet thing and she shakes her head gently as she turns to Tsukishima. “I guess we’ll work with them separately for now, right? Then once they know what they’re doing they can practice together.”

When Tsukishima nods, she takes Yachi’s hand and leads her across the room to have their own space to work in, but Yamaguchi isn’t given time to watch. Tsukishima snaps his fingers and then raises his eyebrow at the startled look Yamaguchi gives him.

“Handholds first then?” he asks.

The basics of dancing include handholds, a position that’s used as both a starting and a reference point in most dances. As such the ones for Latin and Standard are fairly different.

“Ah,” says Yamaguchi until his brain catches up with the rest of him and he nods. It still doesn’t prepare him for when Tsukishima takes two long strides and is suddenly in his personal space though, hands pulling Yamaguchi’s arms up and out to position them in a standard handhold and…holy shit wow okay he is really fucking tall.

Yamaguchi is of fairly average height, but his nose only reaches the blonde’s jaw, and he finds himself swallowing nervously as Tsukishima moves behind him, correcting his posture with jabs to his neck and sides.

“Are you really a dancer?” Tsukishima snaps, digging a thumb rather painfully into Yamaguchi’s spine, and he yelps, instantly straightening himself and squaring his shoulders.

“Better,” the blonde mutters, the heels of his shoes clicking against the hard wood as he circles back to appraise Yamaguchi from the front.

Arms open, left held at waist level and curved to hold someone against him, and the right positioned away from his body, Yamaguchi relaxes a little into it. This is something he knows, he’s a dancer after all and though it’s different from what he’s used to, its familiar enough to bring him a little comfort.

And then Tsukishima steps into his hold and his whole body goes rigid.

“This is a common Standard handhold,” Tsukishima says, oblivious as he fits his hand into Yamaguchi’s outstretched, right one. “Now create a contact point.”

The contact point is where two dancers press against each other for balance, support, and it’s where a lead pushes against a follow to direct their movements.

Yamaguchi hesitates for a second and he can feel himself sweating a little, Tsukishima is so close to him, body warm, and almost half a head taller. It’s highly intimidating, but Yamaguchi steels himself and tries to create the contact point, pulling Tsukishima to him so that there’s no space between their bodies, and almost immediately the blonde’s legs are knocking against his, his spine arching as he tries to keep himself upright.

“Lower!” he snaps and Yamaguchi make a small panicky noise. “Belly to knee, belly to knee!”

Just before Tsukishima can lose his balance, Yamaguchi adjusts himself. He’d been holding the blonde to his chest before, the way he would have in a Latin handhold, but he directs the pressure downwards so that their stomachs and hips press together instead. It’s odd feeling and more than a little intimate and Yamaguchi can feel his cheeks staining red both from the placement and from the fact that he’d almost just knocked Tsukishima on his ass.

“Are you really a dancer?” Tsukishima asks again, sounding vaguely flustered but more icy and pissed than before. Only now he’s so close Yamaguchi can feel the blonde’s breath against his face. Tsukishima shifts suddenly, moving his weight from one foot to the other and Yamaguchi can’t help himself from shoving the blonde away from himself, so violently that they _both_ fall on their asses.

Really he can’t be blamed though.

“I uh,” he stammers at Tsukishima’s furious glare. “I…felt your dick.”

Which it’s true he did, they’d been pressed together from mid-abdomen all the way down to their knees, and sure as day when Tsukishima had shifted there had been his dick resting casually just below Yamaguchi’s navel. Not that he’d been hard or anything it was just… _there._ Of course Yamaguchi would freak out a little.

There’s a beat of silence, during which all the color drains from Tsukishima’s face but he looks no less pissed than he did half a second ago, and Yamaguchi finds himself shrinking away in panic.

Before he can think about it he’s blurting the first words that find their way to his tongue.

“It was a champion class dick!”

Tsukishima’s eyes go wide, then narrow, wide again, and then finally he just grits his teeth and clambers to his feet slowly.

Following suit, Yamaguchi bounces up as well, nerves making his movements short and jerky and though he opens his mouth to apologize because _holy hell he cannot believe he actually said that,_ Tsukishima beats him to it.

“Handhold,” he barks, features twisted in annoyance.

Yamaguchi obeys without thinking about it, arms up, back straight, and once again Tsukishima steps into him.

“Alright we’re going to start with a four count Waltz, ready?”

\------------

Tsukishima Kei is in complete and utter shock.

He has spent the past hour and a half trying to teach Standard dance to one Yamaguchi Tadashi, first place winner of the Latin Dance division at the Japanese nationals. And he fucking sucks.

Like it’s not even that he’s just bad, oh no he’s _terrible._ He’s tripping all over his own feet, over Tsukishima’s feet, can’t do a reverse spin to save his life, keeps dropping the handhold, and has made them both fall no less than three times. Not including the time where he apparently felt Tsukishima’s dick, but, well, he’d rather not think about that.

Where is the man he saw at the competition, with the smooth smile and intense eyes? He’d been dressed in a shirt with a v-neck so deep his navel showed, his collarbones and chest dusted in freckles, and pants tight enough to reveal curves on his hips and thighs. The scruffy, messy hair he has now had been tied neatly back with a black ribbon, his eyes surrounded in dark liner to make them pop against his tan skin. But not only had he looked better, he’d also moved better. On the floor he’d been a completely different man, confident, sensual, strong of will as he’d chased after Yachi in her fluttering, revealing dress.

That was the man Tsukishima had wanted to learn from, not this floundering idiot. So he’d demanded Yamaguchi come to him intending to offer a trade of sorts but…well this wasn’t really working out.

Yachi and Shimizu, unlike them, have made good progress, and all four come together again to discuss their next step.

Tsukishima is losing his patience, but the whole reason he brought Yamaguchi here was to learn Latin dance and he’s not going to send him away just yet.

“You two are certified for Latin dance, right?” Yachi asks.

“We are,” Tsukishima replies, though in all honesty a certification doesn’t mean whole lot. Anybody and their uncle can get one.

Yamaguchi, beaded with sweat from trying to keep up with Tsukishima’s fast teaching pace, nods. “Why don’t you two dance then, and we’ll see what you need to improve on.”

The entire practice has been done without music, so he and Shimizu come together to dance the Rumba in silence as well. They’re only a few moments in, however, when Yamaguchi stops them, eyes wide and hands held out before him.

“Did…were you taught by a Japanese instructor?” he asks tentatively. It’s shy, but he does seem more confident than he did before. Perhaps it’s the move from unfamiliar to something he knows well.

“And you weren’t?” Tsukishima counters.

Looking a little taken aback, the darker haired man smiles. “Ah…no. I wasn’t. I really hate to say this but, well, you need to forget almost everything they taught you. Except your footwork, that was pretty good.”

“Your timing was perfect too!” Yachi chimes, and then she turns to Yamaguchi, raising onto her tiptoes as she speaks, “Do you think the lines will help them?”

 “Ah!” Yamaguchi looks like a light has gone off in his head. “That’s a good idea! Here, I’ll be right back.” He trots back towards where he left his messenger bag, crouching to retrieve a thick black marker. Much to Tsukishima’s surprise, on the return trip he pulls his shirt over his head, dropping it off to the side as he approaches. Though he’s lean he sports a six pack and all of his muscles are well defined, product, no doubt, from years upon years of hard work. He’s also dusted in a fair deal more freckles than Tsukishima had seen before through the open shirts he wore while competing, and they somehow make him seem smaller and softer than the hard planes of his body insinuate.

“Okay,” Yamaguchi says, pulling the cap off of the marker in his hand and then drawing a solid line down the front of his body, from sternum to the tops of his jeans. The next few lines are perpendicular to the first, one across his chest, in the middle of his abs, and another down near his hips. It’s this last line that draws Tsukishima’s attention to the hint of a tattoo peeking out from under Yamaguchi’s jeans.“I want you to watch these lines in relation to my upper and lower body when I move, okay? The core of Latin dance is hip motion, and you two had none.”

He swings his hips a little, arms raised in front of him, and Tsukishima watches as the lines hardly move. “When you two move, your cores stay still. You’re not on the Latin beat.”

The next time he moves, the lines go with him, tilting this way and that as Yamaguchi swings his hips in a steady rhythm. “This is called the figure eight hip motion and you’re both going to need to learn it. Here,” reaching for Tsukishima’s hands he places them above the edge of his jeans, the blonde’s left fingers just barely brushing the tattoo he’d seen, and Yamaguchi continues to move, “it’s easier to copy if you can see and feel it.”

And just like that, Tsukishima is starting to get a glimpse of the man from the competition, the confident, suave dancer with the quick feet and fluid body. His hands tighten subconsciously and Yamaguchi’s motion stops, brown eyes curious.

“Tsukishima?”

Realizing his mistake he releases his hold almost immediately. It had been a mere glimpse after all, no need to get excited, the man in front of him is still not the one he had admired.

 Yamaguchi watches him, but ultimately doesn’t comment on it.

“Yachi, I think it’d be best if we split up again, okay?”

The small blonde gives a little salute and she and Shimizu head back to where they working before, talking animatedly between themselves.

“Alright, I guess we’ll do handholds real quick, and then I’ll continue with core movement, sound good?” Yamaguchi asks.

Tsukishima steps in close to be directed, but can’t help himself when he asks, “What is that tattoo?” What he can see is the edges of a gray toned background just over the top of Yamaguchi’s hip bone, but the content of the art is a mystery.

Not bothering to pause, Yamaguchi begins positioning them so that they’re facing each at arm’s length, one set of hands held between them, the others held straight out from their bodies. “The Dancer,” he says with a wink. “This is open position.”

Next is promenade, facing the same direction, Yamaguchi’s left arm laid over Tsukishima’s right, gripping each other by the elbow.

“Dancer?”

“It’s a secret,” Yamaguchi smiles as he moves them into closed. It’s this handhold that makes Tsukishima realize why he almost fell earlier; if this is the type of hold Yamaguchi is used to it’s no wonder his contact point had been too high. They’re pressed together, chest to chest, hips held apart and though Yamaguchi is a few inches shorter Tsukishima finds their faces far too close for comfort.

From here he can tell that Yamaguchi’s eyes are a dark brown flecked with gold and edged with silver. They lock gazes, each growing still, the darker haired man’s mouth wide open as if he were about to speak but the words for some reason had died before they could be born.

Tsukishima is struck with the completely ridiculous urge to kiss him.

Yamaguchi’s eyes flick down to the blonde’s lips, as if he’s feeling the exact same urge, but it’s the loss of eye contact that allows Tsukishima to step back, heart hammering too loud in his chest.

“Right,” he says, tone clipped. “That’s all of the handholds?”

It takes Yamaguchi a moment to respond, his eyes still fixed on Tsukishima’s mouth, but he shakes himself and says, “Ah, yes that’s it. I’ll um, walk you through the steps of the Rumba next.”

“I know the steps,” Tsukishima finds himself snapping.

Whatever happened between them, (or more accurately, _did not_ happen) seems to have shaken Yamaguchi and the hold he’d had on the persona that Tsukishima had fallen head over heels for is gone.

He honestly hadn’t been able to help himself at that competition, watching Yamaguchi dance. To Tsukishima it’s a profession, a job, a way to make himself famous and well known and secure a comfortable, decently lavish life style. He’s good at it and he enjoys the physical strain and the challenge on his body, as well as the challenges presented by the competitions. But that’s it.

Yamaguchi is noticeably and obviously different. Or at least he was, at the competition. Being from a different style, Tsukishima had never paid him much attention (he rarely did when it came to other dancers, they bored him), and the fact that he’d watched a performance of Yamaguchi’s had been completely by chance.  But he’d found himself drawn to the man, taken in by the passion that simply radiated off of him in thick, powerful waves. It had been obvious that he cared little about the competition, and that it was the dance itself he craved. Tsukishima had been smitten.

This is not the same man. Not by a long shot, so Tsukishima doesn’t understand why he’s still feeling that pull from before. He needs to shut it down and shut it down fast.

“Right, yes!” Yamaguchi finally mumbles. “I know you know the steps, I just…well we have to work on your hip action is all. If we walk through it I can show you how you should be moving.”

And so on it goes. They meet thrice a week to practice, and each time drives Tsukishima a little further up the wall. When its Yamaguchi in charge, when he’s in his element and comfortable he almost nearly transforms (key word there being almost, but Tsukishima thinks the man is still too nervous around him to let lose completely, which makes zero sense considering he does it all the time in competitions), but when its Tsukishima’s turn to instruct, Yamaguchi turns into a hard limbed, clumsy oaf with not just two but three left feet. It’s infuriating, getting those glimpses of the man Tsukishima knows he is within, but never getting close enough to see more than tempting flashes.

“He’s not usually like this,” Yachi tells him one day after practice. Tsukishima doesn’t know her very well, but he does know that she tends to take after her male counterpart; she’s clumsy and awkward when not dancing. But unlike Yamaguchi she can pull it together long enough to deliver flawlessly. Shimizu is also increasingly fond of her, and the two seem to have hit it off really well. 

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen him come across a dance he can’t handle.” Her words are sad, but they suggest a long past with Yamaguchi, a sense of intimate knowledge that he doesn’t possess, and for some reason that burns an angry little hole straight in Tsukishima’s gut.

“Maybe if he concentrated a little, he would have made some progress by now,” he snaps, and then stalks off, leaving Yachi and Yamaguchi to gather their things and run to catch the last train.

\--------

They’re in their third week of this when Tsukishima unanimously decides, all by himself, that Yamaguchi is going to stay late for extra practice.

Yamaguchi agrees, if only because he’s frustrated and upset and there’s a faint feeling of panic in his chest when he considers the idea that he may never be any good at standard and that all of the hard work Tsukishima has put into him is going to go to utter waste.

He realizes his mistake after he says goodbye to Yachi and Shimizu and is left standing alone in the small practice studio with Tsukishima’s intimidating glare. Something catches in his throat the way it always does when trying to face the man down, because he’s so nice to look at it but extremely dangerous, like some kind of beautiful poisonous snake with a tongue barbed for insults. And Yamaguchi, of course, feels drawn to him the way a moth is drawn to a flame. That’s probably how he got himself into this situation in the first place.

“Hand hold,” Tsukishima snaps, snapping Yamaguchi out of his thoughts, and his body responds before he can even process the words.

Only, apparently it’s not good enough because Tsukishima sighs and rubs tiredly at his eyes, one hand on his hip.

“Why is this so hard for you?” he grinds out, like his patience is at its wits end, and honestly Yamaguchi feels just as tired.

He’s been trying, he really has. But Tsukishima never puts music on when they practice, and keeping the time in his head is so difficult. His movements come out stiff and jerky, and he can’t lead to save his life. Tsukishima’s mere presence makes him anxious, much less having the man pressed intimately against him, gold eyes cold as he snaps out directions like some kind of drill sergeant. It’s only sheer determination that’s kept Yamaguchi going this far, but he’s not sure how much longer that’s going to last. Especially if Tsukishima, who hasn’t once lowered his standards, starts losing faith in him.

“I don’t know,” he answers miserably, and then it’s back down to business, Yamaguchi tripping and stumbling around the floor with Tsukishima in his arms, the blonde man condescending and practically sneering as he tries to give direction.

By the time they’re done, Yamaguchi’s entire body feels jello-like, the muscles over worked and quivering with exhaustion. He thinks he’s going to start crying, throw up, collapse, and not necessarily in that order. And he still hasn’t gotten anywhere.

Tsukishima, sitting cross legged on the floor (Yamaguchi is just sprawled out on his stomach at this point) wipes sweat off his face with a disdainful sniff. But the words that fall from his lips, strained after his own work out, are not the ones Yamaguchi is expecting to hear. “There’s got to be something we can do to make you get it.”

They lapse into silence and when the nausea fades, Yamaguchi pushes himself to his knees. “Maybe,” he says tentatively, bringing icy eyes swinging around to him, and he forces the words from his lips, “maybe if we tried playing music? While we practice. Or at least before, so that I can hear it in my head.”

In the past, this suggestion is usually met with derision and scorn. “You’re not at the point of dancing with music yet, you can’t even handle the basics,” is Tsukishima’s typical snarled response.

His eyes narrow speculatively. “Do you really think that will help?” he asks after a while, and Yamaguchi nods eagerly, not daring to hope.

Tsukishima sighs, drags a hand down his face and lets his shoulders slump. “Fine,” he says, “fine. But if you don’t improve we’re doing things my way.”

Yamaguchi blinks. He was under the impression that they were already doing things ‘his’ way. If these brutal practices, the harsh, picking instruction, the scalding words meant to push him further, aren’t Tsukishima’s usual mode of teaching, he’s not sure he wants to ever find out what is. It’s scary just thinking about it.

The compromise for Yamaguchi staying late (and missing the train) is that Tsukishima drives him home in his sleek, silver car. These car rides are not something Yamaguchi looks forward to, unsettling and awkward and always completely silent. It’s like beyond Tsukishima has no idea what to talk about, what to do with himself. Which is nonsense, Yamaguchi knows nothing about Tsukishima’s life outside the floor, and making presumptions about it is just silly. He shakes his head mentally and leans back against the head rest, forcing himself to dream, instead, of the bed awaiting him at home.

Tsukishima’s crisp voice breaks the quiet, startling Yamaguchi so badly he jumps in his seat, sore muscles protesting.

“Can I ask a question?” His eyes never leave the road.

Yamaguchi settles back, puts his hands in his lap and tries to stare out the window instead of at the other man. “Sure.”

“What did you mean when you said you weren’t taught by a Japanese instructor. Why would you go overseas for training if you don’t plan on competing internationally?” Tsukishima keeps glancing at him out of the corner of his eyes and its really unnerving Yamaguchi, but he still gives a small laugh of surprise.

“You don’t know?” he asks, and this time he turns to look at Tsukishima head on, dropping the awkward not-staring in favor of a smile. “It’s public knowledge. I’m pretty sure a couple magazines printed entire stories about it.”

Tsukishima’s glare is nothing to be trifled with, and he aims it at Yamaguchi now, like having the latin dancer know something he doesn’t is pure insanity. But he doesn’t say anything, just allows Yamaguchi to fill in the holes for him.

“I’m half Cuban on my mother’s side. I lived there with her until I was about twenty, but I’ve always had dual citizenship. I came to live with my father, here, when Yachi and I started our dancing careers, but we originally learned to dance on the streets of our hometown.” His eyes crinkle around the corners as he laughs again, albeit gently, “I can’t believe we’ve been working together and you didn’t know that. Hell I’m surprised you can’t hear my accent. Spanish was my first language.”

It’s his best effort to try and be friendly, really, but Tsukishima is a cold, iron wall on the other side of the vehicle, and Yamaguchi’s attempts fall on deaf ears. His smile slips from his face, and he turns back to face the road, defeated, and ten minutes later Tsukishima drops him off in front of his apartment complex without a goodbye.

\-------

They’re walking to Tsukishima’s studio, not late for once, when Yachi turns to Yamaguchi, her face grim and says, “We should quit.”

Surprised, Yamaguchi turns to his partner, eyebrows raised. “What?”

She stops them in the middle of the sidewalk, the streets almost empty at this time of night, and faces him down despite being several good inches shorter. “I’m serious,” she says, taking his hands in hers, “we should quit. He’s a jerk and he’s no good for you. I’ve seen you lately, you don’t smile as much anymore, you’re always lost in thought. If you want to learn standard that badly we’ll find another teacher, anyone but him.”

Yamaguchi blinks down at her, thinks about Tsukishima agreeing to practice with music, and feels something rise up in his chest. He sighs. “One more day, let me try one more time. If today goes badly I’ll…I’ll quit. It’ll be our last lesson.”

Her mouth pulls down at one side, but Yachi squeezes his hands once and then drops them, hurries them down the sidewalk with her quick pace. “One more day,” she says, over her shoulder, and Yamaguchi is grateful once more that he’s had her in his life as long as he has.

They split up when they get to the studio, Yachi to Shimizu’s side and Yamaguchi to Tsukishima’s. It’s almost always like that; Tsukishima refuses to allow them to practice with their own partners, insists they can learn more from each other.

He’s brought a small speaker that hooks up to his phone, and he places it on the floor at one end of the practice room, switching on a faint melody that Yamaguchi is sure he’s heard before.

“If we practice for a few minutes with it playing, can I turn it off? It’s going to get annoying after a while,” Tsukishima gripes, and Yamaguchi nods, already fitting his body into the faintly familiar standard hand hold.

Tsukishima corrects the angle of his neck, the placement of one foot, but those are his only criticisms, and when he slides into Yamaguchi’s hold something just…clicks. They feel aligned for once, like they might be one coherent team rather than a pair of long limbed men tripping all over each in a farce of an elegant dance.

“One and two,” Tsukishima murmurs under his breath, just loud enough for the two of them to hear, “and three, three, four.”

Yamaguchi takes the first lunge like step, pulls Tsukishima with him for once, is able to do the spin without Tsukishima getting left behind by his terrible lead. He turns, continues, picks up on his toes, drops again, spins, does the reverse turn, feels lighter than air, the soft melodic music humming through his veins.

He laughs, does another spin, and Tsukishima breaks his quiet counting to speak, “Left arm higher, lower the contact point don’t hold me quite so close, point your toes more, a little slower on that spin, don’t time with the music keep the rhythm steady.”

On and on it goes, and then the music is dwindling away on its last few notes and they come to a stop in the center of the floor, Yamaguchi’s face flushed and shining, Tsukishima’s unreadable (but at least he’s not scowling). The song, on repeat, starts up again, but they stand there staring at each other like the room is still in total silence, their breaths heavy with exertion but matched, chests rising and falling in time.

Yachi’s shrill noise of excitement breaks whatever spell they’d fallen under, followed closely by her sudden weight against Yamaguchi’s back. He stumbles, arms immediately reaching to hold the legs around his waist steady, and she’s laughing quietly into his shoulder where her face is buried.

“You did it!” she says, kicking her feet childishly. “You finally did it! I’m so proud of you.”

Abruptly her movements stop and she picks her head up, leaning forward so that Yamaguchi can turn and look at her.

“Does this mean you’re not quitting?”

Quit? Now? When his body is finally listening to his commands, when he’s finally able to _move?_ “Hell no.”

She pouts at him, pushes one small hand against his face before clambering down off of him. “Fine,” she calls over her shoulder, going to rejoin the waiting Shimizu, “but next time you get all mopey and weird I’m not letting you off so easily.”

Yamaguchi just laughs.

\-------

Tsukishima’s hands curl into fists at his side and he fights the urge to snap something venomous just to get Yamaguchi’s attention.

He feels faintly like a child being denied his toy, or a school boy with a crush.

Dating when you’re in the dance industry is a difficult thing. If you chose someone within, your partner or otherwise, you create a conflict of interests, emotions and professionalism pulling you in opposite directions. If you date someone outside of it, they inevitably get jealous of the intimate moments required between you and your partner. Tsukishima has watched plenty of his competitors fall in out of these hectic relationships, always with a sneer and a feeling of contempt, because everyone knows it’s a useless endeavor. Better to just be single.

Yachi and Yamaguchi have obviously overcome their conflict of interests and have come together to create a perfect partnership, and if the display Tsukishima just witnessed is anything to go by, a perfect couple as well.

Yamaguchi turns back to him, that fond little smile on his face, though it slips away when he looks fully at Tsukishima, and he feels something in his chest pang at the loss of it.

“Right,” he says brusquely, “the music is definitely helpful, but you still need a lot of improvement. Maybe now we’ll actually get somewhere.”

They get back to work, Yamaguchi humming the song under his breath as they move as Tsukishima insisted on turning it off. He’s got a surprisingly good singing voice, when he breaks out of the hum and softly mouths the words, and it’s entirely too distracting for Tsukishima. He ends the standard practice early.

“Can I put on music for the Latin practice too?” he asks, after all four dancers have taken a small break to cool down a bit. Tsukishima shrugs in response, and the man looks giddy with excitement as he pulls his phone out and goes to hook it up to the portable speaker Tsukishima had brought with him.

“Jaja!” says the speaker, loudly, almost as soon as Yamaguchi has hooked his phone up.

There’s the sound of a heavy, distant bass, and then the speaker croons, “Oye mami sientase bien tranquila comigo,” and Yachi starts laughing where she’s still sitting against the wall next to Shimizu.

“Dancing reggateon again, Yamaguchi?” she asks, and the man’s entire face blooms bright red as he shuts the music off. Tsukishima could recognize the language as Spanish, but little else. On top of his first language, Japanese, he is fluent in several others, because he can’t compete world wide if he’s not. Spanish is not one of those.

 “I like to keep up with club dancing,” Yamaguchi defends, face down as he scrolls through more music on his phone. “Keeps my Latin sexual.”

Tsukishima wants to ask after that, can’t imagine why a ball room dancer would want anything to do with club music, but the speaker pipes up again.

“Mariposa,” it sings, soft and sweet, and this time Yamaguchi claps his hands together with finality.

“Alright, now this we can rumba to!”

He offers a hand to where Tsukishima is still sitting, helping him to his feet, and they fall easily into the practiced Latin handhold.

Tsukishima feels intimately close to being able to see the man who appears in all the competitions when he pulls Yamaguchi to him, but its that distraction that means he cannot.

Thirty minutes later Yamaguchi sighs and steps away, stopping their movements. The music has long been shut off, the repeating song grating on Tsukishima’s frayed nerves.

“You aren’t looking at me,” Yamaguchi says, hand coming forward to grab Tsukishima boldly by the chin.

“We’ve been dating for three months, you have to make eye contact!”

Tsukishima snorts. “I wasn’t aware.”

The eye roll Yamaguchi gives is lost on the blonde. “In the dance! We’ve been dating for three months and we’re madly in love. I don’t feel any passion from you at all.”

“I get lost whenever we lose contact,” Tsukishima admits through grit teeth, brushing Yamaguchi’s fingers from his face. “Shimizu and I are always touching.”

“Imagine there’s a red string connecting us,” Yamaguchi says, taking a step back and gesturing from his chest to Tsukishima’s. “It’s wound around our hearts, so no matter where I go we’re still connected. When Yachi and I dance, my whole body is tuned into hers, even when she’s gone I know exactly where she is and I know she’ll come back to me.”

 _Don’t rub it in,_ Tsukishima thinks, none too bitterly, but he gives his assent and they back track a few steps, dancing the separation over and over again until he can do his part and Yamaguchi slides into his arms once more.

“Good job,” he hums, the first time Tsukishima gets it right, and his chest gives a painful little squeeze. God, he’s so fucked.

As always, Yachi and Shimizu leave first, running to catch the train together, and Yamaguchi and Tsukishima stay behind to practice some more. It goes without incident, and Tsukishima is faintly pleased that the man really is starting to pick up on everything now, if not slightly abashed that it’s his fault in the first place that Yamaguchi struggled as much as he did.

Never keep a Latino from their music, he supposes.

They’re changing into clothing not soaked with sweat, backs turned to each other, when Tsukishima foolishly lets his mind wander, a question slips out of his mouth before he can stop it.

“How long have you and Yachi been dating?” The words are absolutely, completely neutral, with zero emotion behind them, and he winces as soon as they leave his mouth.

Behind him, Yamaguchi makes a kind of choked noise and then starts laughing. “What makes you think we’re dating?” he asks.

It’s completely obvious that they are, and something dark rises up Tsukishima’s throat at the thought that Yamaguchi would try hide something so blatant from him. But then he remembers the troubles of dating someone in the industries, the kinds of rumors that can get around, and forces himself to be calm with the thought that the man is just being cautious, and rightfully so.

He offers an inelegant snort. “You’re dating,” he says decisively, sliding a fresh t-shirt over his head and turning to face Yamaguchi. The man is still facing away from him, shirtless, his hair sticking to the sweat at the back of his neck and his muscles sliding smoothly under tan skin. He pulls a shirt on, hiding the view, and faces Tsukishima with a bland expression.

“We’re not,” he says, and when the flat words don’t seem to affect Tsukishima, he goes on. “We started dancing together when we were eight, grew up together in Cuba. We’re practically siblings, and we love each other but it’s not a romantic love. Besides,” and he sniffs, a smile pulling up the corners of his mouth, “I’m pretty sure she’s head over heels for Shimizu.”

Tsukishima stares at him, feels his brain try to connect the dots and fail, like gears refusing to catch in a machine.

For his part, Yamaguchi purses his lips, and at first Tsukishima thinks he might be angry, but then it becomes apparent he’s trying to hold back laughter. A giggle escapes him, and he covers his mouth with one hand, chest starting to quiver. “I’m sorry,” he says, though it’s apparent he’s not in the slightest. “I’m just, I can’t believe you didn’t notice?”

Then a look of surprise dawns across his face, his mouth falling open, and he breathes, “Holy shit,” before breaking into laughter so heavy he bends at the waist, hands on his knees.

Tsukishima feels embarrassment and anger rising up through his body in a tide, how dare Yamaguchi laugh at him, but before he can do much more than tense his body, the man is speaking again.

“You totally like me!” The look on his face speaks of a new, brilliant discovery, his smile stretched wide. “That’s why you’ve been such a dick lately, and why you get all sullen when I mention Yachi. You’re jealous and you like me.”

It’s the truth, if in a simplified, shaved down version. But Tsukishima doesn’t have to admit to it, doesn’t want to in the face of Yamaguchi’s amusement. His words are clipped, hard edged with the embarrassment seeping through his veins. “Don’t be ridiculous,” he spits, and Yamaguchi’s merriment dies in his throat, his features falling into a look of confusion. “Who’d be stupid enough to have feelings for a man like you?”

There’s a flash of pain across Yamaguchi’s face, and he seems to withdraw into himself, gaze averting and shoulders hunching, like the only way he knows how to defend himself from the accusation is to curl up and take it. Tsukishima drives the man home in stifling, uncomfortable silence.

\--------

Practices after that are a bit…well, awful. Yamaguchi tries, he really does, but all the progress he’d made that first day flies straight out the door. He’d been getting comfortable Tsukishima, finally able to relax and move the way he needed to around the man after that final push with the music. Now, now he’s back to being more than slightly terrified.

He’d been so sure…so sure he’d had it right. Tsukishima’s harsh words filter through his head, despite his best efforts to just move past them.

The man himself is basically unreadable, and whatever gentleness he might have once shown is once again locked under a mask of ice and steel. It’s all business; move here, turn there, swing that way, put your hands here. Having him in Yamaguchi’s arms is like dancing with a very realistic but nonetheless wooden puppet, zero emotion, practically dead weight.

He feels like he took one step forward and then ten straight back, and in the process walked straight off the edge of a cliff.

Tsukishima throws a new kind of curve ball at him two or three practices later, when they’ve stayed late together again.

“Do you know the perrero?” he asks, one hand on his hip the other lifting a cool bottle of water to his lips. Yamaguchi tries not to stare at the convulsing motion of his throat.

“It’s pronounced perrero,” he says automatically, rolling the first set of r’s easily on his tongue. Then the question itself filters in through his mind and he startles a little, heat setting somewhere over his collarbones. “Um, yes I do, why?”

“I want to learn it.”

The request is completely out of the blue, plucked from thin air, and Yamaguchi splutters a little, the heat rising up his neck to engulf his entire face. Surely Tsukishima doesn’t know? If he did he wouldn’t be asking in the first place, right?

“I,” he says, stumbling over his words, “I, um, don’t-“

Tsukishima lowers the bottle from his mouth, gold eyes glistening sharply in the light. “Can you teach it to me or not?” he snaps.

“Of course,” Yamaguchi answers, intending to throw a ‘but’ in there, but it never makes it into the air as Tsukishima immediately falls into the closed Latin handhold.

Sucking in a large breath, Yamaguchi lets it out slowly and considers his options. Accept and embarrass the hell out of both of them when Tsukishima finally realizes exactly what he’s asking for. Deny him and risk pissing the blonde off royally before he can get an explanation out. He’s not entirely sure which is worse.

“You won’t need that,” he finally says, stepping close to the other man and shuffling him out of the hold into a more casual position. “Can you um, can you lift your leg straight up?”

Tsukishima scoffs like he’s asked a stupid question, and lifts his left leg promptly, one hand just below the back of his knee to help hold the stretching motion. 

Swallowing thickly, Yamaguchi steps even closer, aligning their hips and also puts one hand on Tsukishima’s leg, up on his calf, to steady himself. “Now counter point my movements.” He puts his weight in his heels and pushes his hips back, and after a brief second, Tsukishima follows and pushes his forward as best he can while standing on one leg. Then Yamaguchi presses forward, forcing Tsukishima’s back, back again, forward, until they’re basically pantomiming thrusting against each other.

Yamaguchi doesn’t think he’s ever quite blushed this hard. He knows this dance, has done it plenty of times, but doing it with Tsukishima is just…it’s humiliating. Mainly because Tsukishima is incredibly gorgeous and hot and that does absolutely nothing for the nerves Yamaguchi has been feeling around him lately.

“Alright,” he says after they’ve got the motion down, and drops his hold on Tsukishima’s leg, “that’s one move. Next you’ll uh, well it depends are you looking to learn the lead or the follow.” It’s odd terms to give to a dance like this one, it’s certainly not ball room material.

Tsukishima hums and lowers his leg. “Lead.”

Oh god, okay how does he phrase this? “Well, the next part is for me to get down on my hands, and you have to stand behind me and uh…thrust.”

Tsukishima’s eyes widen almost comedically. “Excuse me?” 

Good, maybe now he’ll listen and they can get back to proper things. Things that don’t involve Yamaguchi having to shake his ass in the air, because while he’s perfectly capable it’s not really something he wants to do, especially not in front of Tsukishima.

“Perrero,” he says, gesturing vaguely with one hand, “it means doggy style. It’s more or less a club dance that looks like public sex. I tried to warn you, but you didn’t listen.”

Tsukishima looks like he might have made a very big mistake, his face showing shock and something sour that twists his lips slightly. But then he shakes himself and gives a shrug, apparently having made a decision. “I heard about it from an acquaintance,” he says, and Yamaguchi wants to ask because it’s not a popular dance in Japan, or in a lot of countries for that matter, and certainly not amongst the types of circles Tsukishima is sure to be a part of. “I want to learn it, teach it to me.”

That’s….not what Yamaguchi was expecting. When he’s silent, with shock and worry (he really doesn’t want to humiliate himself further in front of Tsukishima, truly) the man raises a single pale eyebrow at him.

“I thought Latin dancers specialized n sex appeal.”

“We do,” Yamaguchi says, a little miserably, and then works on trying to steel himself. If Tsukishima wants to learn, then there’s really no helping it. The only thing he can do is buck up and teach him, and try to not let embarrassment into the equation at all. Tsukishima is right after all, Yamaguchi is used to flaunting his body when he dances, and it’s not like he hasn’t done plenty already in just their regular practices. Latin dances are sexual, period, and acting as the follow he almost always ends up pressed against Tsukishima’s chest, wrapping a leg around those narrow hips, and with Tsukishima’s hands roaming his body as if lost in passion. They’re not really, every move is carefully dictated, but this shouldn’t be any different.

“Alright,” he relents.

 ---------

Tsukishima has made a mistake.

Well, he’s made several in fact. The first was the way he’d snapped at Yamaguchi several days ago when the man had accused him of harboring feelings. He shouldn’t have done that, because afterwards Yamaguchi had withdrawn from him and Tsukishima had been too awkward to do anything but do the same. Really, his interpersonal skills need work.

The biggest mistake, however, is that he’s asked Yamaguchi to teach him this dance. Yamaguchi had admitted to keeping up with club dancing a while back, that same day Tsukishima had been harsh and angry with him, and after he’d cooled down the admission had come back to him and he’d grown curious. In truth nobody had told him about the perrero, he’d simply found mention of it online, and he’d brought the request to learn it to Yamaguchi in hopes that somehow it might reconcile things between them.

He should have given the endeavor up after he’d found out exactly why kind of dance it was. But stubbornly he’d found himself pushing on, and for the life of him he can’t fathom why. Nothing good can come of this, surely.

True to his word, Yamaguchi has continued the lesson. He’s standing with his feet hip width apart, bent over at the waist with palms flat against the floor in a mimicry of some yoga position Tsukishima is vaguely familiar with. Downward facing dog or something.

“Hands on my hips,” he orders, and the angle he has to bend his neck to glance back at Tsukishima looks painful, but Tsukishima does as he’s told. Because of the position, Yamaguchi’s shirt is riding up, and Tsukishima finds his fingers grazing warm, bare skin, and he holds on as loosely as he dares.

“Tighter, and get closer, we have to be touching,” Yamaguchi says immediately. He’d insisted on putting some music on before they continue, and the bass of the song thumps through Tsukishima’s chest. It’s in Spanish again, so he can’t understand the lyrics, but he thinks he hears ‘bailar’ somewhere in there, and that at least he knows. He steps up behind Yamaguchi, holds his hips a little tighter, and finds that their height difference has the top of Yamaguchi’s ass only just reaching above Tsukishima’s thighs.

Yamaguchi seems to notice it too, and he wriggles his hips when he glances back again. “Spread your legs and bend your knees a little, until we’re flush.” Tsukishima’s faint alarm must show on his face because he gives a little movement that may or may not be him trying to shrug his shoulders. ‘You’re the one who wanted to learn the dance’ it seems to say, even as Yamaguchi drops his head again.

Tsukishima does as told, even though it’s awkward and this is definitely not the kind of dance he’s ever been a part of, and has never had the desire to be a part of.

Once they’re crotch to behind, pressed intimately close, Yamaguchi says, “Okay, now try to match me,” and starts moving.

Really it’s not easy for Tsukishima to describe what Yamaguchi is doing, because his brain quickly starts to short circuit. But mostly he’s just aware that the other man’s back is somehow, in that position of his, arched, and his ass is rubbing, no, _bouncing,_ against Tsukishima. The view, to say the least, is rather fantastic.

“You have to move too, or it isn’t considered a dance,” Yamaguchi says, cutting through the faint din of the music, and Tsukishima realizes the shaking and bouncing of his hips, the vague rolling of his body is all very much in tune with the beat.

Tentatively he tries to match Yamaguchi’s motions, pressing his hips in time with other man’s, rolling back, forward, to the side. It’s intimate and bizarre and he’s not sure at all what he thinks about it because his brain just isn’t quite working the way it’s supposed to. His dick, however, has started to take quite an interest, in perfect working order, and he has zero hopes Yamaguchi won’t notice with the way they’re pressed together.

Abruptly Yamaguchi’s center of gravity changes, his back arching even more dramatically as he stands, hands drifting up his legs, his thighs, running up his chest over his head until he can wrap them around the back of Tsukishima’s neck. And all the while his hips keep rolling, swaying, keeping Tsukishima moving with him.

As if on instinct, Tsukishima’s fingers trail away from Yamaguchi’s hips, pushing up under his loose fitting t-shirt to feel the swell and fall of the muscles in his abdomen.

The song comes to a pounding end, but a new one picks up almost immediately in its place, the beat a little slower, but accompanied by a heavy, instrumental melody. Yamaguchi’s movements adjust seamlessly, fingers burning hot where they tangle in Tsukishima’s hair, brushing the sensitive skin at the back of his neck.

“Spin me around,” Yamaguchi says, and he sounds almost breathless. If Tsukishima wasn’t rock hard in his loose work out pants, he certainly is now as he spins the man in his grip until they’re face to face.

“Hold on,” is Yamaguchi’s only warning before he presses down on Tsukishima’s shoulders, using the leverage to wrap both legs around the blonde’s waist, and Tsukishima is blown away by the fact that even then he’s _still_ dancing, before Tsukishima’s automatically grabbing at his ass to hold him up.

His awe is quickly replaced with even more lust because goddamn that is a nice ass. Tsukishima isn’t certain he’s capable of feeling anything else right now, because Yamaguchi is grinding against him, encouraging the blonde to thrust his hips and the more they move together, the more they sway, the more certain he is that Yamaguchi is just as hard as he is. Yes, that is definitely another erection he feels.

The music pounds around them, fast flowing Spanish, repetitive almost addictive beats, a melody heavy on trumpets and something he thinks might be an accordion. It doesn’t matter, ‘da da da dum da da da da dum’ goes the bass,  ‘da da da dum da da da da dum’ goes Yamaguchi’s hips.

In retrospect he’s not sure who kisses who, but their mouths meet in a desperate clash of lips and teeth and tongue and it’s messy considering they’re still dancing but he doesn’t care, pushing his tongue into Yamaguchi’s mouth with reckless abandon and sucks hard on the one that pushes back.

Somehow, Yamaguchi manages to work his hands between their bodies, entrusting the legs wrapped around Tsukishima and Tsukishima’s own strength to keep them from taking an awkward tumble to the floor.

“Bara bara bara, bere bere bere,” the music sings as Yamaguchi manages to work first his cock and then Tsukishima’s out of their pants. It’s impressive considering neither of them has buttons or flies, just soft material that has to be pushed and maneuvered out of the way in a very small area to work with. But then he’s bringing their lengths together, one hand closing around them and giving them a few strokes and Tsukishima can hardly breathe, much less appreciate Yamaguchi’s obvious sexual capabilities.

Their kiss ends in favor of Yamaguchi skimming his lips down Tsukishima’s jaw and kissing at his throat, his hand pulling away from their dicks only to come back slick with spit, and holy fucking shit the smooth slide of his fingers, the feeling of having the proof of Yamaguchi’s own desire pressed tight against him, its all amazing. And as someone who can count the number of times he’s had sex on one hand and the number of times he’s masturbated on the other, Tsukishima is going to come ridiculously quickly.

He’s hit, suddenly, with the reminder that he’d thought himself pretty much asexual up until this point. It almost makes him want to laugh, but Yamaguchi’s tongue back in his mouth quells any such urges in favor of nipping gently at the intrusion and then sucking on it to earn a groan from the man. Asexual he is not, but maybe demi…

Yamaguchi, as if sensing Tsukishima’s distracted thoughts, chooses that moment to do something with his hand that has the blonde seeing stars. He chokes out a moan, breath stuttering, and suddenly realizes that his knees are shaking like wet leaves and they’re going to topple to the floor if he collapses.

Distantly he realizes the music has changed once again, and that it sounds decidedly less Latin now with a quivering heartbeat of bass.

“I like you talking dirty, I like your filthy love,” it sings in English, and for once he’s able to translate the words.

“Yamaguchi,” he warns, feels his whole body quiver and knows they’re going to hit the floor the moment he comes.

“Stuck on a feeling,” the music croons, “you just can’t stop, once ain’t enough.”

His orgasm hits him fast and hard, a wave of pleasure that rolls through his body and then holds there, gripping his muscles tight, Yamaguchi still writhing and grinding against him. A guttural sound escapes his lips, and it’s his knees that hit the ground first, which he’s rather grateful for, before he falls back onto his haunches.

The jarring movement doesn’t stop Yamaguchi’s own release; his whole body tightens and he throws his head back, a faint cry echoing from his throat as he goes very, very still. The music pounds around them, and then Yamaguchi softens and falls forward, against Tsukishima’s chest, and he’s forced to catch the man or risk being thrown onto his back.  

They’re a sweaty, panting mess, and their cum is already starting to dry uncomfortably on their cocks and clothes and anywhere else it happened to land. After a few minutes the playlist seems to come to an end and they’re left in a resounding silence, the only sound is them trying to catch their breaths.

Yamaguchi comes to his senses first and pushes himself up, a sleepy but content grin on his face. “I knew you liked me,” he murmurs, expression smug and pleased with himself.

Tsukishima feels something knot in his gut and he averts his gaze. He isn’t aware he’s speaking until he hears his voice, cold even with his ragged breath, and by then its too late to stop it.  “Sex doesn’t equal emotional attachment.” The words seem to echo around them, and then Yamaguchi’s weight against him is gone and doesn’t return.

He’s gone despite the fact that Tsukishima drives him home almost every night, the trains have long since stopped running, and the odds of finding a taxi are next to none.

\-------

“I told you,” Yamaguchi says out of the side of his mouth, smug. He’s trying his hardest to forget the events of a few nights ago, trying to not let Tsukishima’s cool, calm demeanor get to him.  It’s about to get considerably harder, he knows, because they’re going to be alone again.

Yachi and Shimizu are asking for the day off, just the one, so that they can go on a date.  Of course Yamaguchi called this ages ago, has been watching Yachi fawn all over the other woman for weeks now, and isn’t surprised at all. Tsukishima doesn’t look particularly surprised either, more annoyed than anything, but Yamaguchi knows he was when he originally found out.

“Fine,” the blonde eventually relents, and the girls rush off like they’re scared he’ll change his mind if they linger, laughing quietly to each other. Knowing Tsukishima, he probably would. Yamaguchi thinks they might be going to the carnival that set up on the edge of town recently, but he’s sure to get all of the juicy details out of Yachi later. She’ll probably call him tonight and gush for a few hours over the phone, and he smiles just thinking about it; he’s never seen her so engrossed in someone before. He just hopes it works out better than his own emotional attachment.

Said emotional attachment turns to him with an arched eyebrow. “I assume you also want to take the day off?” Tsukishima grumbles.

Yamaguchi debates his answer. If he says yes, he doesn’t have to spend time alone with Tsukishima  (or rather, anymore time alone with him), but he’s also likely to bring down the man’s wrath. It’s not that he doesn’t enjoy Tsukishima’s company for the most part (lord help him) it’s just that he’s still reeling a little from the other dancer’s harsh words. He’s not sure he can stand another verbal attack like the ones he’s already suffered without steeling himself first.

Really, he’s an idiot, because in the end he just shrugs. “Let’s just do some light practice. We shouldn’t let the night go to waste, but we don’t have to work too hard either.”

He’s probably in love with Tsukishima, he knows that. Which is why he keeps coming back for abuse it seems, but he’s also pretty sure Tsukishima is in love with him. Or at least likes him a little. He just has to crack it out of the thick headed man. If there really wasn’t a chance, if Tsukishima thought of him as nothing more than another student or even a fellow dancer, he’d give up he tells himself, and it’s vaguely comforting as they go through a few stretches and then step up to each other, ready to do the waltz.

An hour later Yamaguchi reclines with his back against the cool glass of one of the floor to length mirrors, his body humming pleasantly from the faint strain in his muscles. He can go a lot longer, he knows, but for the moment he’s content to just sit and watch Tsukishima go through his own, personal training, the things he does when he doesn’t have a partner to work with. They had split up only a little while ago, but what had turned into a quick break for Yamaguchi is stretching into some kind of viewing session instead.

Tsukishima looks amazing when he dances though. Being in his arms and feeling his movements is one thing, but seeing them from a distance is another. They’re both pleasurable experiences, Yamaguchi thinks, but he does enjoy getting to see the play of muscles on the other man, even beneath his loose clothing, the concentration on his face, the decidedness of his steps.

Across the room Tsukishima comes out of his spin, arms held aloft, but he drops them sharply and fixes his sharp gaze on Yamaguchi suddenly. “Enjoying yourself?” he asks, closing the distance between them with measure steps until he’s standing only feet away.

Yamaguchi juts out his chin when he answers truthfully. “I am.” Got a problem with it? is the unspoken add on, but Tsukishima seems to sense it in the air between them, as he averts his eyes and rolls his shoulders idly.

“I have a question,” he says, and now his words are oddly hesitant. Not timid by any means, but slow, almost unwilling to be spoken.  “You said you learned to dance while living in Cuba, correct?”

Naturally, Yamaguchi is on his guard now. The last time Tsukishima approached him like this they’d ended up frotting against each other like horny teenagers right here in the middle of the studio. “Yes,” he says, eyeing Tsukishima warily. Not that he doesn’t want a repeat performance, he does, he just wants to wait until _after_ Tsukishima admits he’s human and has a heart.

“I was wondering how the dances differ. What you do in competitions and what you did then. If I remember correctly when you first stepped onto the professional scene you broke almost every rule in the book.”

Yamaguchi blinks, surprised. It’s true, he and Yachi had broken a lot of rules at first, but only because they weren’t yet acquainted with all the trials and tribulations of competitive dance and were still using the same moves they’d learned on street corners and small half-furnished studios. They’d done better after they’d started playing the game properly, but Tsukishima is right. The two are different indeed.

“Well I used to dance on a one/thirty-second beat,” he finally settles on.

Tsukishima looks vaguely impressed, but his face shudders with his next words, like he’s embarrassed to be saying them. “Do you think you could show me?”

This is weird. Like, really weird. Yamaguchi stares up at him, incredulous, before he considers the request in earnest. It’d be good to do something from his past, really. He keeps up with the club dancing, but the things he used to do on the street, with nothing but a guitar as accompaniment?   That’s where he’d truly fallen in love with dancing.

He stands, stares down at the hardwood floor and scuffs his shoe against it. Should be good enough, if he pulls out his heeled boots, and he says as much to Tsukishima.  

\-------

Tsukishima’s trying, he really is.

The perrero had been a bad idea with unintended side effects, but this time he thinks he’s got it right.  He’s showing interest in Yamaguchi’s passions, right? Sort of?

He goes to fetch the pair of boots Yamaguchi asked for from the man’s bag, finds them black leather with large, flat heels, just over ankle high.  Does he really just carry these around with his workout clothes and water bottle? Probably, Tsukishima’s learned Latin dances call for all kinds of odd, extra accessories.

Yamaguchi takes the shoes from him with a smile and slips them on, stomping his feet against the hardwood floor a few times as if testing them out. The heels snap against the wood, creating a sort of clacking noise that brings tap dancing to the forefront of Tsukishima’s mind.  

“Not going to put on any music?” he asks, crossing his arms and propping one shoulder against the nearest wall. Yamaguchi, for his part, just smiles and backs up a few paces to give himself room.

“The great thing about Flamenco,” he responds, tapping out his feet a few times, “is that you can make the music yourself.”

His movements start slow, elbows bent, arms crossed in front of himself, small rat-a-tat’s of his heels against the floor. But he picks up speed as he goes, he snaps his fingers in time with the clicks of sound from his heels, and suddenly Tsukishima is starting to understand what he meant by making his own music.

His hips sway inadvertently with the movement of his feet, and he trades snapping to lay one arm across his abdomen and hold the other over his head as picks one leg up and spins, slams his foot down in a series of rattling clacks and then does it again, falls to one knee only to pick himself up and step side to side, his heels hitting the ground so quickly he never even lifts his toes off the ground.

He’s singing under his breath, Tsukishima realizes as he goes on, hands clapping out a quick tempo as he taps a small circle out on the wood, his hips swaying with more definition now. The words are lost, but Tsukishima’s pretty sure he wouldn’t be able to understand them even if he could make them out. As it is, they provide a humming background to the rest of the performance, bring clacks and snaps and claps together and tying them together.

There’s sweat on Yamaguchi’s brow, he’s wearing ridiculous black leather boots over a pair of yoga pants and a bright green t-shirt with a series of cartoon animals on it and a slogan from some zoo. His hair’s tied messily at the nape of his neck, long strands slipping out to swing around his face as he moves, and Tsukishima swears this is the most beautiful he’s ever seen him. Forget the seductive persona he’d seen at the competitions, _this_ is the true dancer beneath. His lips are pulled back in a smile, forming words only he can hear as he sways and dips and slaps his heels down, he’s practically glowing he’s so happy and comfortable, perfectly in his element.

Tsukishima’s breath had caught somewhere in his throat ages ago, watching Yamaguchi dance, but it whooshes out of him now in one long sigh.

He’s in love. He’s in fucking love and he can’t fuck this up, can’t let this man slip between his fingers or, worse yet, drive him away with stupid callused words like he’s done so far.

 Yamaguchi comes to a rest with one last flourish, his narrow chest heaving faintly and his brown eyes shining. Tsukishima doesn’t even think about it, he just steps toward him and pulls the man into a kiss.

\------

It startles Yamaguchi at first, the kiss, but for a brief moment he allows himself to lean into it. He feels practically golden after that dance, connected to his core in a way a lot of the competition dances just don’t do for him, and his body hums with the feeling. But he still doesn’t kiss Tsukishima for long, putting that pale face between his palms and pushing back gently until the man gets the hint.

Golden eyes blink at him from behind black framed glasses, and Tsukishima looks…well, rather vulnerable for one. It’s not an expression Yamaguchi has ever seen on him before. Still, he can’t in good conscience let this go any further before he knows for certain that Tsukishima isn’t after another quick romp in the hay. Or, er, on the hard wood.

He also doesn’t want to make Tsukishima defensive though. Because when he feels threatened, he lashes out, and Yamaguchi’s pretty sure that’s what’s happened between them thus far. So he tries to pick his words as carefully as possible.

“What do you want from me?” There, nothing even vaguely accusatory, just a simple, honest question. And if Tsukishima doesn’t want anything but sex, well then Yamaguchi can turn around and walk out. And if he doesn’t? Yamaguchi’s heart beats a little faster against his ribs at the thought.

Tsukishima looks rather stricken, like he honestly hasn’t considered the question at all until just this moment. Eventually, cheeks blazing, he manages to stumble over a few words. “I um, really like you. Or something.” His gold eyes flit somewhere just beyond Yamaguchi’s shoulder and his mouth pinches down into a thin line. “I uh, didn’t mean those things I said. Before.”

Yamaguchi’s starting to think he should dance the Flamenco more often if this is what happens afterwards. It’s only half a confession, and there’s no real apology in there, but it’s a start and it’s making Yamaguchi feel a little light headed. A smile splits his lips, and Tsukishima looks vaguely alarmed at first when his gaze refocuses, but then he gives a tentative smile back.

“I didn’t even have to beat that out of you, this is amazing,” Yamaguchi says, and then jumps to speak again before Tsukishima has a chance to feel offended. “I really like you too. But those things you said were pretty hurtful. I have to know you’re not going to keep treating me like that.”

There’s a teetering moment where Tsukishima looks like he isn’t sure what exactly he wants to do. But he nods in the end, seems to visibly compose himself despite the blush staining his cheeks. “I’m sorry,” he says, his voice gruff but completely earnest. “I was just…embarrassed. I won’t say shit like that again.”

Yamaguchi feels lighter than a feather, lighter than air really, and despite the fact that he’s grinning ear to ear he still leans in to kiss Tsukishima, and sighs happily when Tsukishima press back against him.


	2. Sticky Kisses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yachi and Shimizu go on a date.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah yes, ready for cute lesbians?? I had so much fun writing this. But just as a note, this isn't near as long as the main part of the story and really I wouldn't even consider this another chapter. It's more of an add-on or an extra. I'll be posting one more of these, about Yamaguchi and Tsukishima, to tie up some plot holes I left open. 
> 
> In other news, please check out [this](http://ask-tsukki-and-yama.tumblr.com/post/107511695856/once-aint-enough-by-sagemasterofsass) amazing fan art an even more amazing ask blog drew of the main story! 
> 
> In other OTHER new, my wonderful beta has recently started writing an Android AU and you should all [check it out](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2780567/chapters/6237836). Seriously, it has robot!Yamaguchi, what more could you ask for?

 Yachi feels like she might faint.

Honestly the best thing about learning standard is definitely the fact that she’d gotten to meet, spend time, and work with Shimizu. She’s beautiful and intelligent and calm and cool in a lot of ways that Yachi is just not. Which is honestly why she’s so surprised that Shimizu seems to return her affections.

“Are you sure about this?” she asks again, not quite yet past the point of timid with the woman. They’d appeared as a united front when facing Tsukishima (to go on this date that Shimizu asked her out on, holy shit) but Yachi is anything but sure. Shimizu knows this is a _date_ date right? Or maybe it’s not and Yachi has just been reading everything absolutely wrong.

Shimizu gives a smile over her shoulder, small and reassuring. “I’m sure,” she says, her voice almost lost in the noise of the train station as they grow closer to it.

Yachi has her doubts, but she keeps them to herself as Shimizu buys tickets for them and they board the train heading for the edge of town. It’s not until she sees the lights from her window that she realizes exactly where they’re going.

The carnival doesn’t come around this area very often, but Yachi remembers the times she and Yamaguchi have come in the past. It’s always really fun, riding the rides and eating ridiculous sweet foods together, but somehow she feels like her visit with Shimizu is going to be a little different.

For one thing, Yamaguchi was never this beautiful under the flashing fluorescent lights. No offense to him, he’s an attractive man for sure, but Shimizu is just…breath taking, all sleek hair and delicate, feminine features, a collected expression and slim fingers and hips. The lights make her skin shine with warmth, like she’s lit from within, and her dark eyes practically glow when she turns them on Yachi. The little blonde is so absorbed in being in awe that she almost misses the question.

“What do you want to do first?”

Shaking herself out of the revere, Yachi examines the hustle and bustle around them, the booths with games, the food vendors, and all the different rides. She feels something akin to childlike excitement bubble up in her chest, and she points to a stall with a board covered in balloons for people to throw darts at. “Can we play that?”

Shimizu gives a little smile and a nod of her head, and they wander through the crowds to go play the game.

Twenty minutes later Yachi is cuddling a large, oversized giraffe and is in even more awe of Shimizu because she doesn’t think she’s ever seen someone throw darts quite that well. And then they move on to another game, this one a ball toss, and this time a colorful fish is added to their growing stuffed animal collection.

“You’re amazing!” Yachi splutters, feels the blush stain her cheeks before the words have even finished leaving her lips.

Shimizu laughs gently and steers them towards a mini roller coaster. The line is a little on the longer side, and they end up making small talk while they wait, Yachi’s arm full of cotton and soft fabric, and Shimizu standing with one hip cocked to the side in such a way that Yachi has a hard time not staring. It makes her forget she’s terrified of roller coasters up until the moment they’re being strapped into adjacent seats.

“Wait,” she tries, and again Shimizu gives her a little smile.

“Here,” she offers, taking Yachi’s hand in her own as the seats jostle and then starts to move along the track.

The warmth of Shimizu’s fingers tangled in her own makes the ride completely worth it. Almost. Yachi still staggers a little and has to spend a minute trying to figure out where exactly her stomach has gone once they get off. And then she’s worried she’ll never find it again, because Shimizu doesn’t let go of her hand, not then, not when they have to tuck their stuffed animals up under their arms, not on the next two rides, not even as they walk between each one and wait in line. She wonders briefly if she’s died and gone to heaven.

“Are you scared of heights?” Shimizu asks a while later, neck craned back to examine the very top of the Ferris Wheel.

“A little,” Yachi admits, observing the ride with a small amount of trepidation. “But I’ve ridden one before. Yamaguchi likes them. Do you want to go?”

The other woman nods, and they shuffle into line, and then when they’re at the front, into one of the little carts. When they sit, on the same side, the walls are at shoulder height, and above that there are four supports, one at each corner, for the little canopy above their heads. It’s not particularly scary or fast, but Yachi still feels a little tremor work up her spine when they start climbing their way up into the night sky.

In all honesty, the sight of the city skyline, lit up against a dark back drop, is beautiful, and the carnival spread out beneath them is a study of light and distant sound. But it’s the ground, far below, and the faint swaying of their little cart that has Yachi trembling faintly.

Shimizu squeezing her hand draws Yachi’s attention, and she glances back at the other woman. But Shimizu isn’t look at her, she’s glancing down at everything going on beneath them, at the distant, dark horizon, her glasses catching a glare and her hair stirring faintly in the breeze.

“It’s beautiful isn’t it?”

_Yeah, you are,_ Yachi thinks, and bites her lower lip to keep from letting the words spill out.

Turning causes the glare to slip away from Shimizu’s glasses, and suddenly Yachi finds herself pinned by a warm, brown gaze, and then Shimizu is squeezing her hand again reassuringly as she’s leaning in, those pretty eyes fluttering shut as their lips brush together.

Yachi freezes at first, her own eyes wide in shock, but she kicks herself mentally until her body slumps and she’s kissing back. It’s not her first kiss, but her heart pounds too hard against her ribs and her head feels full of cotton, about to burst. It’s almost like she’s on the roller coaster again, her stomach tossed somewhere up between her ribs and all of her senses too disoriented to be useful. Except they are useful; she feels the breeze on the nape of her neck, stirring her pony tail. She feels Shimizu’s soft lips against her own, the warmth from the other woman’s skin, the smell of her shampoo and whatever body spray she uses, the taste of her mouth (chapstick and ginger), and Yachi’s drowning in it, drowning because it’s so good…

Their little cart is jostled as it comes to a stop at the very peak of the wheel, and it draws the two girls apart with little gasps.

For a moment they just stare at each other, and then Yachi is giggling because god she’s never going to be scared of Ferris Wheels ever again, not if she gets to think back on this wonderful moment, and then Shimizu is joining her until they’re leaning against each other for support, shoulders shaking with the strength of their laughter.

They kiss again, briefly, after they’ve managed to catch their breath. The ride comes to end not long after, and they collect their stuffed animals (left at the bottom with the operator) once they’re off.

“It’s getting pretty late,” Shimizu notes once they’re holding hands again and trying to decide what they want to do next. “We should probably leave soon. Especially since Tsukishima is going to expect us to make up for the missed practice tomorrow.”

“Hopefully he and Yamaguchi got over themselves while we were gone and finally hooked up. Maybe we’ll get out of more practice if they did.”

“Yeah. Right. No, if anything he’d make everyone practice even harder.”

Yachi winces and then shakes her head. “Okay, we should go then. Can we get something to eat first though?”

They hunt down one of the food stalls, order a caramel apple to share and end up seated together on a bench, stuffed animals in their laps, as they laugh and try to eat their snack. It proves to be harder than expected, and they first take turns trying to take a bite only to wind up with sticky caramel all of their faces. They try each taking a bite from opposite sides next, and this proves more successful, though it results in more giggling and a bright red flush on Yachi’s cheeks.

When they’re done Shimizu leans across the bench to kiss her again, and this time she tastes like caramel and ginger and their lips stick together when they pull apart, so that they simply just end up kissing a few more times.

Yachi feels breathless by the time they part, and her grin is huge the entire train ride home, even after they’ve separated.

It’s around one am by the time she makes it back to her apartment, and the first thing she does it pull out her cell phone and hit speed dial.

“Yamaguchi, I’m so in love,” she breathes the moment the other line picks up.


	3. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So today is supposed to be a day to support fanfiction writers! I really wanted to participate, but the final piece to this story is probably going to be the bulk of my contribution. I'm moving cross-state for college, and I'm leaving in about an hour. Might be able to find some time this evening? But we'll see. 
> 
> Anyways, this really is just twenty five hundred words of porn. I only wrote it because I never did explain what Yamaguchi's tattoo was after having mentioned it, and that bugged me. But who doesn't love a smutty ending, right? Enjoy.

Much to Tsukishima’s delight, he finds that Yamaguchi’s slim frame is surprisingly easy to man handle. Or in short, Tsukishima is able to bodily pick him up and slam him against the wall of his bedroom the moment they’ve crossed the threshold.  

Yamaguchi laughs quietly, mutters a small, “Impatient, are we?” even as Tsukishima claims his mouth, licking at soft lips to demand entrance and then taking it anyways. Not that Yamaguchi is resisting any, with the way he wraps his legs around Tsukishima’s hips and tips his head back to accept the probing tongue, moaning low in his throat when it swipes teasingly along his own.

They haven’t been dating for more than an hour at most, but Tsukishima feels like this has been a long time coming. They’d left the studio early after Yamaguchi’s dance, after twin confessions, and like always he’d offered to drive the shorter man home. Only about halfway through, his mouth had gotten away from him and he’d invited Yamaguchi to spend the night with him. Blushing but happy, Yamaguchi had agreed, and the car had been filled with sexual tension thick enough to be cut with a knife after that.

Now they’re here , and Tsukishima can’t help the soft moan that escapes him when Yamaguchi gives his hips a little twirl, pressing tight against him, so like their last encounter. He pictures those hips in his mind, the way Yamaguchi had swayed and twisted and flaunted them when he’d danced the perrero and he grips them tight, loving the curves of flesh under his finger tips even if they’re covered by Yamaguchi’s pants.

“Fuck,” Yamaguchi gasps, pulling away from their kiss when Tsukishima returns the roll of his hips, pressing him even tighter against the wall. Losing his mouth, the blonde kisses along his jaw and then down his throat instead, nipping and sucking at the exposed skin and then growing irritated when Yamaguchi’s shirt hides the rest from him.

With a little growl, he picks Yamaguchi up from the wall, turns and takes the five steps to his bed and deposits the other man onto his back.

“Strip.”

Yamaguchi pushes himself up onto his elbows on the mattress, scans his eyes slowly down Tsukishima’s body and gives a little smile. “Only if you go first.”

For some reason, that gives Tsukishima pause. It hits him that this is really going to be the first time they have sex; last time had been more the desperate frotting of teenage boys than anything else. They hadn’t even taken off their damn pants. This is different, more intimate, more revealing.

It gives him pause, but only because he hadn’t realized the implications before. The implications themselves send a shiver of excitement down his spine, and he pulls his shirt over his head without any hesitation, letting it fall to the side.

Yamaguchi’s eyes, that warm, steady brown, drink in the sight of bare skin greedily, and the blush just under his natural tan flares brighter as he subconsciously licks his lips. It’s a damn good response, but even better is the way Yamaguchi shuffles onto his knees so he can trail soft fingers over Tsukishima’s abdomen, tracing the lines of muscle with reverence.

“Goddamn you’re hot,” he whines after a while, laughs, and then grins up at Tsukishima. “Pants too. I want to drool over your thighs.”

Tsukishima laughs as well and does as he’s told, lettings his jeans pool around his ankles before stepping out of them and kicking them away. It leaves him in a tight pair of briefs, his half-hard cock perfectly outlined against the front of them.

“Shit,” Yamaguchi curses again, and he wasn’t lying, there is a small spot of drool at the corner of his mouth. His gaze travels up and down Tsukishima a few times, and finally comes to rest on his dick, and then his fingers are there too, touch too soft to do anything but tease. The blonde lets him have his fun for a moment, and then he’s hooking his thumbs in the waistband of his briefs and pulling those off as well.

It feels weird to be completely nude in front of Yamaguchi’s kneeling, still clothed form. But it’s not bad, especially when Yamaguchi trails soft touches along his cock, skin to skin now. They morph into a more solid caress, until Yamaguchi is jerking him off slowly, bringing his erection to full mast and pulling soft sighs from him. The best part is the way he keeps looking up through his lashes at Tsukishima though, all coy innocence and licked lips, like he’s thinking of how good the blonde’s length would taste on his tongue.

It’s this last part that has Tsukishima stepping out of range and crossing his arms over his chest. He’s not going to be content coming from hands or mouth alone. He _wants_ this man, and by god so long as Yamaguchi’s willing, he will have him.

“Strip,” he says again.

This time Yamaguchi actually complies, pulling his ridiculous green t-shirt over his head and letting it fall off the bed. He gives Tsukishima the same amount of time to appreciate the reveal of skin as Tsukishima did him, and the blonde takes full advantage because god he’s never going to get enough of that body. He’s lean, has to be to dance the way he does, but thick with muscle despite it, all long lines and sumptuous curves.

Then come his pants and underwear in one go, leaving him naked and sitting back on the balls of his feet  and his knees on the comforter, hands splayed casually on his thighs despite the thick length of his cock curving up towards his stomach. He’s not as long as Tsukishima, but makes up for it with his girth, the head thick and already starting to weep slowly, pre-cum dribbling down his length. Tsukishima suddenly understands why Yamaguchi had been licking his lips; he looks delectable, and he wants nothing more than to get his mouth around that, which is a truly odd sensation for him. He doesn’t think he’s ever been this aroused in his life, not even on the few occasions when he’d had sex before.

Then he catches sight of ink against dark skin, and he remembers suddenly that faint flash of a tattoo he’d seen on Yamaguchi not long after they’d met. The way the other man is sitting now, Tsukishima still can’t make out exactly what he is, and he opens his mouth to ask about it.

The shrill sound of a phone ringing breaks the tension like shattering glass, and both men glance down at their discarded pants.

“Oops,” Yamaguchi laughs, sliding to the edge of the bed so he can scoop his up. “That’s mine. Sorry about that, but it’s Yachi’s ringtone. I should probably pick up.”

Tsukishima raises an eyebrow, but makes a little ‘go ahead’ gesture. If he feels completely ridiculous standing naked by the edge of the bed while his boyfriend answers his cell, well that’s nobody’s business but his own.

He can’t hear what’s said on the other end of the line, but he can hear a breathy, feminine voice, and judging by the large grin on Yamaguchi’s lips, Tsukishima can hazard a guess that their partners’ date went pretty well.

Yamaguchi laughs, says, “Yachi, Yachi slow down, hold on!” He pauses, seems to wait for the other girl to give him the space to talk before continuing. “Look, I’m really happy for you, but I’m kind of busy at the moment.”

Whatever her response is, it causes Yamaguchi to roll his eyes in exasperation. “No, I’m about to be fucked,” he deadpans, gaze still fixed on the ceiling like maybe it will give him answers.

Tsukishima has to suppress a shiver just hearing the other man talk like that. He is glad that they’re on the same page, however. Though he wouldn’t mind bottoming if it were Yamaguchi who was going to top, it’s not something the blonde has ever done before, and he’d like time to work up to it if possible.

Tonight is not a not for working up to anything; it’s for letting out all the pent up frustration that’s been building between them since they met.

Yamaguchi ends the phone call fairly quickly after that, giving a few promises to call Yachi in the morning and answering a few questions Tsukishima can’t hear. When his boyfriend is done, he drops his phone on the bedside table with a sigh and then gives the blonde an embarrassed smile.

“Sorry about that, she was really excited about her date,” he says. “And then she had to yell at me because apparently I’m ‘beating her to the punch’ since I’m going to have sex and she’s not.”

Tsukishima smirks, drawls, “Lucky you,” and it makes the embarrassment melt off of Yamaguchi in the form of a laugh that could almost be described as a giggle.

“Mhmm,” he hums in response, knee walking over the bed until he can slide warm hands up Tsukishima’s thighs to his hips. “Lucky me. Now come here, I already bragged about this so let’s get the show on the road.”

“Very sexy,” Tsukishima snorts, but he follows the tug of the other man’s hands on him, leaning down to kiss him. He’s able to back Yamaguchi up and then push him down to the mattress, crawling after him until he’s poised on all fours above him. It makes Yamaguchi hum a little happy noise, fingers smoothing up the blonde’s sides and then down again.

He breaks their kiss to blink up at Tsukishima. “Got supplies?”

“Bedside table,” Tsukishima breathes, dipping in for another quick kiss before he can bring himself to pull away for the two or three seconds it takes to dig lube and a condom out of the bedside table. (Another few seconds as he checks to make sure they haven’t gone bad; that’s how long it’s been since he’s made use of them. Thankfully they’re both still good, which is fantastic because he’s honestly not sure what he would have done had they not been.)

When he turns back to Yamaguchi, the other man has wiggled his way up the bed and grabbed one of the pillows to stuff under his hips. He’s got that red flush under his skin again.

“I wanted to be able to see your face,” he says as Tsukishima settles between his spread thighs. “That’s okay, right?”

Tsukishima marvels at the fact that Yamaguchi doesn’t even twitch when telling someone he’s about to be fucked, but then blushes very prettily when saying he wants to see his boyfriend’s face when said fucking occurs.

“Perfect.”

Tsukishima’s tempted to keep kissing him, addicted to the feeling already, but he kisses along freckled thighs instead and is finally able to really see Yamaguchi’s tattoo.

It’s a constellation. The stars are dark specks on a grey background that shifts from dark at the top to pale at the bottom. Thin lines stretch between the stars to connect them, though Tsukishima can’t really make out what shape they’re supposed to be forming.

Almost reverently, he trails a finger over the ink and remembers what his boyfriend had said about it before. “The Dancer.”

“Yeah.” Yamaguchi smiles down at him, one of his own hands smoothing over the art as well, like it’s an unconscious action. “It’s a constellation from Celtic myth. I grew up hearing stories about all the stars that made it up.”

“It’s beautiful.”

The man’s eyes crinkle when he smiles, and he shifts his wandering fingertips from his own hip to Tsukishima’s face, caressing his cheek. Grinning, the blond turns and bites at those fingers, making Yamaguchi laugh, before Tsukishima returns to his task at hand and continues kissing at his boyfriend’s thighs.

He opens the lube and coats his fingers, making sure to warm it up a little first. Yamaguchi tenses at the touch of a first finger, and the blonde rubs soothing circles into his hipbone until he relaxes again. When Tsukishima goes to add the second and third fingers, he ducks down and takes his boyfriend’s cock in his mouth, sucking lightly to keep him distracted from the uncomfortable stretch.

“Tsukki,” he finally groans, sliding his fingers into blonde hair and pulling on it gently. “Tsukki please, c’mon, I’m ready.”

Tsukishima pulls off with an audible pop, and he knows his lips are swollen and red by the way Yamaguchi’s eyes zero in on them. He smirks as he rolls the condom on, and then slips his arms under his boyfriend’s knees as he pushes in, moving slowly to give Yamaguchi time to adjust to him.

The other man throws his head back with a low groan, fingers twitching restlessly where they’ve found purchase in the bedding after having to give up pulling Tsukishima’s hair. Tsukishima has to fight a groan of his own, teeth sinking into his lip as he bottoms out, flush against Yamaguchi’s body, and has to take a moment to breathe. Velvet heat, perfect around him even through the condom.

“Fuck,” he grinds out, and Yamaguchi makes a moaning noise that seems to convey a similar sentiment.

“Are you okay, can I move?” Tsukishima asks, bracing his hands by the other man’s shoulders so that he can lean over him.

Yamaguchi nods enthusiastically. “Yeah, yes, please god just move.”

It’s a request Tsukishima wouldn’t fucking dream of denying.

He pulls out slowly, until he’s nearly slipped out completely, before thrusting in again just as slowly. A couple repetitions of this has Yamaguchi cursing at him to ‘get a goddamn move on’ and if he wasn’t already breathless with pleasure himself he might smirk about it.

As it is he just quickens the movement of his hips, the thrusts shorter but harder, and groans low in his throat when Yamaguchi drags his nails down the blonde’s back.

When he shifts his weight a little and changes the angle, it has Yamaguchi arching his back off the bad with a near-scream. “There, there! Oh god please, right there.”

Tsukishima does his best to keep hitting the spot, even as he leans down to mouth at his boyfriend’s throat. He can’t suck a hickey there like he wants to, he’s panting too hard for that, but he does lick and bite and suck until Yamaguchi is practically writhing under him, his fingers finding their way back into Tsukishima’s hair.

When Yamaguchi comes, he pulls hard enough to make Tsukishima’s eyes water but really that’s what throws the blonde over the edge too. They shudder together, Yamaguchi moaning long and low and Tsukishima taking breathy little pants as pleasure rolls over him in wave after wave.

It takes a moment for him to regain the use of his limbs, and when he does he pulls away from his boyfriend slowly. The other man winces a little when Tsukishima slips out of him, and the blonde rubs at his thigh comfortingly as he pulls off the condom and ties it, tossing it at the trash can he has in the corner of his bedroom.

He wants to just collapse next to his boyfriend, pull him close and hold him, but his sense of cleanliness has him standing and wetting a washcloth in the bathroom to wipe them both down with. Once that’s accomplished though, he collapses next to Yamaguchi and drags the man into his arms, nuzzling at his neck while Yamaguchi makes a small, content noise.

“That was fucking awesome,” he says into the silence after a moment, and Tsukishima hides a grin and a small laugh against his shoulder at the words.

“Crude description, but yes,” he replies. Yamaguchi turns to face him, a sleepy little grin of his own on his face.

Tsukishima’s gaze can’t help but be drawn back down to that inked hip, studying the lines and shading, fingers twitching to trace it again. From this angle, pressed against his boyfriend with one arm around him, the blonde thinks he can finally see the dancer in the design. A spindly leg, the curve of an arm, a head tossed back in dramatic flair.

It’s beautiful.


End file.
